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Summary:

“you never yielded to me even a little or your past or your nature”—The Crimes of the Mathematics Proffessor, Clarice Lispektor

—— ·𖥸· ——

Mild afternoon sun beams down on Elain, cool wind caressing her skin. Dirt cakes her hands, mud splotches cover her muslin gown. Blue birds are chirping in the birch tree a few feet away from where she kneels in the garden. Baby birds welcoming home their arriving mother, mouth filled with fresh food.

The exile’s estate sits on sprawling grounds, close enough to the nearest town that it takes less than an hour to get there by horse. But still isolated enough to have deep woods surrounding it. The gardens are large and disorganized. Nothing seems to be dying and Elain hasn’t seen any visible weeds but it’s clear no real love or passion has been shown to it. Garden beds house plants picked seemingly at random, snapdragons next to cacti’s next to thyme. 

Not that the residents seem to care much, Vassa has only ever walked the gardens at night when the disarray is far less noticeable. Jurian doesn’t seem like the type to do much strolling in flowers and Lucien…Elain’s not entirely sure about the source of his indifference.

Still, it’s enough of an affront to the eyes that Elain considers having strong words with the head gardener, but she’s been unable to locate him. There’s a cabin on the edge of the property where Vassa told her the man lives but he’s been gone each time she’s stopped by.

So with approval from Vassa, Elain plunders the gardeners shed and attempts to restore order to the chaos. She’s unlikely to be here long enough to enjoy the fruits of her labour but she enjoys the work anyway. Today Elain is planting hydrangeas she had Cerridwyn pick up in town, errands allowing the spy to slip away without drawing too much attention.

Since coming to live with the band of exiles a week ago, Elain has spent most of her days in the garden alone. Nuala and Cerridwyn are both wary about seeming too close to her in case their covers as spies are blown. 

Eris hasn’t shown his face since the day of the funeral. The idea that he might be off plotting something while Elain is no closer to understanding his true intent irks her greatly.

And she hasn’t gotten a chance to spend much time with the three exiles aside from dinner every night. As the sun rises each morning Vassa returns to a firebird. Elain hasn’t seen her during the day, and hasn’t asked to. Assuming that it’s a rather sensitive subject for the exiles. 

Lucien’s presence has been sparse since the first night. Busy with emissary work or simply avoiding her, Elain isn’t sure. 

Jurian leaves in the morning most days, only returning for supper where conversations are pleasant if a bit bland. What he’s been up to remains unknown, meeting with Lords across the territory Elain gathers. But the contents of those meetings are still a mystery. Living in the servants quarters has left the twins too heavily observed for much spying and Elain hasn’t been able to find out any information on her own. 

Hasn’t been able to do much of anything, really. 

Elain thought coming here to spy would make her feel important. That she would finally get to do something of value. The success of the first night is starting to feel like a blip.

Elain grips the trowel in her hand firmly, the rough wooden handle digging into skin. She shoves it deep into the earth, dislocating clumps of soil and clay. Metal bangs on rock. Sighing she reaches her hand in and pulls it out, dirt loges beneath nails. She glides her thumb across the rough surface of the rock, tracing the texture.

Elain hasn’t made any progress with the stones Azriel brought her for training, despite looking at them for half an hour every night. As for the jacket…she hasn’t touched it since that first night. Not with it reeking so badly of alcohol and sewage. It took three days of airing out her rooms just to get rid of the stench.

For days afterward Elain dreaded her next meeting with Azriel. The idea of looking him in the eye and informing him that the only thing she’s accomplished all day is to plant azaleas. But he hasn’t shown up all week. Not since the first night. Elain wonders if, like Lucien, Azriel is avoiding her.

Elain separates the roots of the hydrangeas. Placing them gently into the earth and packing soil around it.

Part of her is glad for the distance, and not only because she isn’t making any progress with training or spying.

Being around Azriel is hard. Painful. Standing alone in a room with him, both thinking the same thing, wanting the same thing. And knowing it can never happen. Elain would rather avoid being in that position entirely than deal with the burning longing that comes for days afterward.

She still hasn’t forgiven him for avoiding her for months. But when he’s close all that hurt and anger seems to leave her mind. Like the earth has tilted and Azriel’s now at the centre of it, drawing her in closer and closer. All rational thought leaves her mind, there’s only him.

What’s wrong with her? 

Elain’s never before been this indecisive. Wanting him close but being unwilling to do anything more. Being hurt when he’s gone but wanting distance when he’s near. How horrid that must make her.

And if he ever finds out the truth of what she’s done…how this is all her fault.

Elain buries that thought. So deep in the garden of her mind you’d have to kill her to get it out. She almost never allows herself to think on any of the things buried there. Elain keeps her head looking forward, never turns back.

It’s the only way to survive.

—— ·𖥸· ——

For the past week Azriel has spent every morning in the library pouring over old text. Searching for anything that references seers and prophecy.

Clotho was right, there aren’t many books to begin with and the ones he can find appear to be written about travelling charlatans. Nothing that describes seers blessed by the cauldron itself.

He sits in a little reading nook carved into the mountain, red stone surrounding him. Scenes of legendary battles decorate the pillars holding up the walls. Armoured heroes with mighty greatswords casting out scaled beast down into the abyss. Bodies twist in agony and nightmare.

Azriel’s desk, likewise, is carved into the mountain, brightly polished making the rock shine almost like gemstone. Discarded cups of tea and crumbled up notes litter his workspace. Along with a few books on mating bonds Az indulged in taking out and is now too embarrassed to put back. 

Layered rugs, patterned in styles from a wide range of decades, line the floor. An overstuffed armchair sits before a small fireplace which brightens the room. Faelights in the ceiling doing the rest of the work.

The whole space is warm and cozy, but that comfort was a secondary motivation for Az picking the nook. The main one being because it’s the room furthest away from the general library. And Azriel doesn’t really care to be seen by anyone else.

Clotho gave him permission to be in here, and many of the priestesses he trains have grown used to his presence. But still…being in their safe space makes Az feel deeply self conscious. Always mindful of his movements and tone of voice.

And it hasn’t escaped Azriel’s notice how many eyes he draws each time he browses the shelves for new tomes. Priestesses who glance and sigh as he walks by. 

When it happens his mind inevitably drifts back to Elain. Those few times she’s looked up at him with desire filling her beautiful doe eyes. Like she’s moments away from inviting Azriel into her bed.

And that thought is not a welcomed one, certainly not in the library of all places. A guest he may be, but if Clotho catches him wandering around reeking of arousal she may skin him alive. 

He’d probably deserve it.

Try as he might, Azriel can’t seem to stop thinking about Elain. He used to have such a good routine. He kept thoughts of her at bay during the day, indulged only at the very dead of night when even his shadows have fallen asleep. And there’s no one around to see his shame as Azriel imagines that it was him the Cauldron chose as Elain mate.

Part of himself still can’t quite believe that he’s not.

He’s a big believer in fate, hears enough whispers from the shadow and stone to know it exist. Three human sisters being turned fae can’t be a coincidence. The Mother chose them for some higher purpose that Azriel hasn’t figured out yet.

And for two of them to be mated to his two brothers, while Elain…

Az has only uttered that thought aloud once, to Rhysand. Which turned out badly enough that he decided to lock the idea deep within himself and never think of it again. 

That lasted for about a day, until escaping their imprisonment, the words clawed back up again. Haunting him with relentless force.

Why isn’t it me?

Ordinarily the answers would be simple. Because Azriel’s a shit who doesn’t deserve her, that’s how it was with Mor. But in this case it just so happens that Lucien is an even bigger shit who deserves Elain even less. 

If she was mated to someone better than him this would all be so much easier. Azriel could step aside, watch her from a distance at peace knowing she’s found happiness. 

He tried that at first. Stayed away after she was turned fae despite being so drawn to her. Partly because Nesta was ready to claw out the eyes of anyone who merely looked towards the room Elain locked herself inside of.

But also, because Azriel convinced himself that he had no place around her. Elain mate would come for her and everything would be fine. It wasn’t until he saw how much she wasted away that Az realized how wrong he was. Lucien’s presence offered no comfort for Elain, he didn’t even seem to understand how to help her. 

So Azriel stepped forward, telling himself all the while that he would just do this one thing and then take a step back. Soon she would fall into her mates arms and never look his way again.

But that never happened. And it hasn’t escaped Azriel’s notice that it’s his direction, not Lucien’s, her eyes turn to when they’re both in a room. 

Mor, she had never wanted him back. And there was some sick part of Azriel that was perfectly content with that. He could love her in his own quiet way and never have to worry about anything more. About corrupting someone so pure.

But Elain does want him. Was hurt when Azriel was avoiding her. Has never shied away from him or avoided his touch.

There’s a deeply pathetic part of himself that doesn’t know what to do with someone who actually wants him back.

He’s had lovers before, many of them. But that’s only been physical. He’s never fully allowed himself to open up to anyone. Not even Mor. And Azriel knows that if there’s to be any future with Elain he would have to give her all of himself.

As much as he wants her, he’s not entirely sure he’s capable of doing that.

And she deserves someone who can. Someone gentle and kind who can touch her without worrying about the taint of his stained hands.

Azriel is torn away from his musings as soft footsteps approach from behind. He turns swiftly, scarred hand reaching for the dagger strapped to his belt. 

Only to find Gwyn standing in the doorway shifting her weight between two feet, arms behind her back. His shadows, dancing idly on the rug before the fire, had not informed him she’d arrived. 

Az greets her politely which she returns. There’s a look of hesitation in her eyes, as there so often is, before she hides it again, as she always does.

“I uhhh—Clotho, mentioned you were looking for books, on seers.” She addresses the wall beside Azriel’s head rather than his eyes. He tries not to think of that brutal day in Sangravah, knows she’s doing the same.

“I work for a researcher named Merril, she can be a bit,” her brows furrow, “but anyways, she’s really smart. Collects a bunch of rare text. I was able to find this one for you.” From behind her back Gwyn pulls out a small, almost hand sized book, it’s leather bindings worn with age. 

Prophets and the Voices of Time, author unknown.

Azriel stands and reaches for the book, speaking gently, “This will be very helpful, thank you.”  

“I will try to track down more if I can.” Gwyn gives him a firm nod, like a soldier committed to duty.

He gives returns it halfheartedly, attention drifting to the book in his ruined hand.

It’s longer than the small size would suggest, over a thousand pages. Which are brittle enough to require great care when handing them. The text inside is tiny, blotted and smudged in places. Written in what appears to be an older dialect of the common tongue, which Azriel is only vaguely familiar with.

Whatever information the book may hold, it’s going to be a pain to read. He might even need to recruit Amren for help. Gwyn is still in the room, studying him with sharp interest. He raises a brow at her, she looks down blushing.

“Sorry, Nesta sometimes…” 

“Tells you things she shouldn’t,” Azriel finishes for her.

Gwyn gives him a guilty expression, smiling a little, hooking shimmering strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, and well she hasn’t mentioned anything about seers,” she laughs a little, the shadows in the corner seem to sway in response. “I guess I was just wondering if Nesta has been seeing my future without telling me.”

Azriel smirks. “That would be a harrowing thought.”

Mirth shines in Gwyn’s depthless teal eyes. “I fear she might use her sight for evil not good. Laugh days before I trip down the stairs, call dibs on the last cupcake before it’s even baked.” 

She tells him in a hushed, conspiratorial voice, “Nesta might even spoil the latest books for me before their release dates.”

His shadows glide closer to the one Gwyn casts. Shaking wildly, as if outraged on her behalf.

Azriel chuckles, the tension of the long hours he spent working leaving him. “Good thing you won’t have to worry about any of that. Prophecy is just a personal interest of mine.” He lies smoothly. 

Elain’s powers are not widely known and he’s more than happy to keep it that way. The idea of what would happen if Elain’s  ever captured by someone who knows she’s a seer has kept Azriel up many nights before.

“Oh…okay, that’s good then,” Gwyn speaks softly, as if not quite believing him, before she bids him goodbye and leaves. As she walks away Azriel swears some of his shadows remain in her own. 

—— ·𖥸· ——

Azriel’s head is pounding by the time he heads upstairs for training. Sunshine searing into his eyes after so long in the dim library. 

From what he’s managed to gather the book Gwyn gave him does seem to be legit. It’s about prophets, not seers, whose powers work differently. Still, it’s the closest thing he’s come across to information on Elain’s gifts.

But understanding the dialect is a slow moving hassle. Azriel decided against asking Amren, worrying that it might lead to Rhys’s interference in Elain’s training. 

Cassian and Nesta are already at the training ring when he arrives. It’s still a bit early for any of the priestesses to be here.

Az gives them both a nod in greeting. Picking up a practice sword, hoping to get in a bit of training before he begins his teaching. A row of new training dummies stand near the outer wall, all paid for out of Azriel’s pocket. 

Cass told him just to charge it to the court as a military expense. But Az insisted. Mostly because the old ones getting ruined was entirely his fault. Also he has a large pile of gold lying around anyway that he doesn’t have much else to do with.

Rhysand has always paid him a generous salary as spymaster, as did the previous High Lord. And Az rarely spends much on himself, his only real expense is paying for the upkeep for his mother’s estate. Only the basic maintenance cost. He’d drown her in luxuries if he could but his mother would never allow that.

Az swings at the dummy, maintaining a flawless stance. Sword work is second nature for him. Something he no longer needs to think about, it’s in the way he breaths. 

Sometimes Az wonders if after years of mistreatment his mother is still convinced she doesn’t deserve to be cherished. Azriel has spent centuries trying to show her that she does.

His mother was the only thing that kept him together during his years of imprisonment. Sometimes he wonders what kind of male he would be if he never felt the warmth of her love.

If his heart would have frosted over completely.

The priestesses arrive not long after Azriel begins training. Gwyn gives him a hesitant nod which he returns, before turning to his students.

Roslin has been making fast improvements in her swordplay and Deidre has become adept with a dagger. And Nesta…

It’s shocking how much she’s grown these past months. There was always a sharpness to her. But it lacked refinement. Now her blade work is better than some Illyrians who have trained for decades. As if she were crafted for battle, as if it were carved into her very bones.

—— ·𖥸· ——

Elain dusts of her stained gown, picks up her gardening supplies and heads for the shed where they’re stored. The sun hangs low in the air, bleeding through the clouds; staining them with an orange and gold hue.

Afternoon has almost passed, with Elain having spent most of it in the garden, even taking her lunch there alone. She’s come to miss sorely the afternoon spent feeding lunch to little Nyx, sometimes eating with Feyre and Rhys when their schedules allow.

She doesn’t even have those lunches to look forward to when she returns home. Not with Elain now living in townhouse and she and Feyre not speaking. When she gets back it’ll just be more dinning alone.

Sighing, Elain walks along the path to the garden shed. Long grass, honeysuckles and clovers left to grow wildly. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for how inaccessible the overgrowth makes the shed. 

Elain has no idea what the head gardener does all day because she’s never actually seen him work, just a few grunt employees who handle the watering and weeding each day.

The shed door is stiff as Elain opens it, darkness greets her. She flicks on the oil lamp she left by the door, the one she carries frequently now, especially at night. A habit which was once done without so much as a thought for most of her life now strikes her as a massive inconvenience. How privileged she is to live in Prythian where everything’s lit by fae light. 

Elain wonders if that magic will make its way down here now that there’s no longer a wall. If there’s any fae out there working to better the lives of humans at all.

She sets her trowel and gardening sheers on a dusty shelf, a few stray bulbs Elain can’t identify roll around aimlessly. Bags of stale fertilizer are left discarded, spilled over in a corner. She makes a note to herself to start some fresh compost. 

Elain walks into a cobweb as she leaves. Quickly wiping off her face and arms, trying to shake off any stray spiders. There aren’t any, all she’s managed to do is smear dirt all over her face. Elain shakes her head, grinning to herself. She needed a bath before dinner anyway.

Elain stops by the kitchen on her way back inside. Coral tiles line the walls, rich oak coloured floors. A giant slab of white marble in the centre of the room where two staff are silently chopping potatoes and celery for dinner. A woman, with brown hair and matching meek looking eyes. And an orange haired young man, freckles scattering his mirthful seeming face.

Elain gives them an apologetic smile before stepping around them to get to the copper sink, splashing her face with water. Scrubbing herself clean.

As she stands up the scent of rosemary and thyme fill her lungs. “It smells lovely in here,” she sighs.

“Thank you, miss.” The merry looking young man says. Blue eyes shine up at hers, before he quickly looks back down again, a slight blush on his round cheeks.

Elain looks over at the kitchen scraps. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind keeping some of those for me. I can come collect them each day, if its easier.”

“Why ever would you want those?” The woman asks disdainfully, clearly not as shy as her appearance would suggest. “Milady,” she mumbles, after a scolding look from her companion.

“I’ve been fixing up the garden. Some fresh compost would do it some good, I think,” Elain smiles kindly at them.

The woman looks about to say something biting before once again being silently reprimanded by the man. An intense look is shared between them.

“Is something wrong? If it’s too much of a bother—”

“It’s not that, milady,” the man cuts in. Elain gives him a questioning glance. “It’s really not for us to say,” he mumbles, not meeting her eye.

She directs her attention to the woman, who simply stares. Sensing she’s not going to get anything more from them, Elain departs. The young man giving his assurance they will assist her in collecting scraps for compost.

—— ·𖥸· ——

Elain nearly groans when she returns to her rooms. Of course Azriel would wait to show up again  until she’s completely covered in dirt.

Az stands leaning against a wall furthest from the windows line of sight. Nuala and Cerridwyn sit  straight backed on navy armchairs places opposite a cream coloured couch.

Elain stands by the door of the sitting room, gawking at them. Debating with herself if it would be unprofessional to run out of a meeting for a bath. Although, the idea of bathing, getting undressed, with Azriel so close by….

She chooses to sit down instead, ignoring the way her muddy gown is now staining the couch.

Az looks at Elain a bit sheepishly. “This meeting isn’t urgent, there’s time for you to,” his wings ruffle, “get cleaned up if you wanted to.” There’s a blush on his sharp golden cheeks, as if he too was thinking about Elain getting undressed in such close proximity. 

Heat spreads to her face, she shakes her head rapidly, mumbling that it’s fine.

Cerridwyn coughs, hiding a laugh. Nuala elbows her. The stare Az gives them is frosty enough that they both grow stiff. 

“I wanted to check in,” Azriel starts. “To see the progress you’re making.”

Elain cringes internally. This was bound to happen eventually, but part of her was hoping she would have some more time before she and Azriel met again. 

“I haven’t,” she bites her lip, “made much progress.” Az raises a brow, Elain goes on to tell him about everything. The inaccessibility of Vassa during the day, Jurian’s unknown meetings, Lucien’s sparse presence. Eris’s complete absence.

“Lucien has been busy handling problems in Spring,” He informs her about a group of bandits seeking power there. “As for the rest, just knowing Jurian is in meetings so often is useful for us. As is the fact that Vassa’s circumstances often leave her excluded from them.”

“It means he’s making moves without her,” Cerridwyn clarifies.

“Not necessarily,” Nuala counters. “They may have discussed their plans beforehand, at night.”

Elain considers that for a moment. “Maybe, but I haven’t noticed them spending much time alone together.” 

“I haven’t been able to get away enough to see much of them either,” Cerridwyn sighs. “That Marlene is one nosy bi—”

“Our rooms are very close to others,” Nuala informs Azriel, not even glancing towards her sister. 

He nods. “Servants talk. See if you can find out more from them. If Vassa and Jurian truly are engaged there’s sure to be gossip about them slipping away together at night.” 

He gives Cerridwyn a pointed look. “Befriending this Marlene may be a good place to start.”

Cerridwyn looks about to say something but is silenced by a glance from her sister.

Azriel looks back to Elain. “Now, let’s discuss how your training has been going.”

She winces, looking down at her hands. “I uhh, haven’t had any visions from the stones.”

“And the jacket?”

“I haven’t touched it,” she mumbles.

Azriel tilts his head, waiting. “Because of the…well the smell.” Elain blushes, hoping she doesn’t seem too rude by mentioning it.

“What smell?”

“Well it ummm…reeks.” That’s putting it mildly.

 Azriel’s eyes widen. “There was no stench when I gave it to you, aside from the males scent, which I grant you isn’t pleasant.” He looks to the twins. “Have you to noticed anything?”

“No,” Nuala says slowly, glancing between Elain and Azriel.

“Wait. Is that why you were airing out your room, Elain?” Cerridwyn’s eyes light up. “I just assumed you found the air stale.”

“It appears you have made some progress after all,” Azriel’s hazel eyes dance with warmth before he goes back into spymaster mode. “What exactly did the coat smell like?”

“Wine, vomit and ahhh…raw sewage.” As a lady Elain would never utter the word shit. Even if that, indeed, is what it smelt like. 

“That’s extremely helpful. Thank you.” There’s sincerity in Azriel’s voice but Elain isn’t quite sure why. She hasn’t even done anything, not really.

“I don’t understand, how can I be having visions without realizing it? And how useful can my visions be if I can’t tell them apart from reality?” She muses, trying not to feel too discouraged.

Her visions have never been consistent. Some days Elain can’t make them stop, reality and dreams bleed together blurring the lines between wakefulness and slumber. But she can also go weeks without having a single vision. 

None of it makes any sense.

“Everything in due time, Elain. Training, like spying, requires patience. You can’t expect to get results in just a few days,” Azriel tells her gently. Moving away from where he was standing to sit beside her on the couch. 

“It’s been over a week,” she grumbles. The twins take this as a good time to leave. Walking through the nearest wall without saying a word.

Az holds out a hand, Elain glances up at him. “Take it. I want to show you something.” 

She hesitates for a moment. Painfully aware that they are now alone together again. He’s sitting close enough to her that Azriel can likely her her beating heart. 

Elain takes his hand without a word. Inky darkness swirls around them, she clings tighter to Azriel as they approach the space between places. Closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to she the things that sometimes lurk inside shadows.

Looking around Elain finds herself standing in what appears to be a brick tunnel. Awful stench slams into her.

Coughing, hand covering her face, Elain whirls around to face Azriel. “Why the hells would you bring me here?” She demands, disgust overtaking her good manners.

Azriel chuckles, scarred hand also covering his face. “This is the sewer system of Dawn court.” She gives him a bewildered look. 

“And I brought you here,” he continues, “because one of my spies went missing a few weeks back. And I think your vision has just helped me find him.”

Elain glances around her, faelights shine overhead, on the other side of the tunnel murky brown water flows, she doesn’t even want to consider what’s mixed into it. 

“He’s not…” she hesitates, whispering.  “Dead, is he?”

“Let’s hope not. Come on.” Azriel walks on ahead, Elain following after him. 

They walk for what feels like ages in silence. Each moment spent trying not to breath in filth. The path widens to a fork in the tunnel. Water continuing to flow on once side, a stone walkway on the other.

“Maintenance room, “Azriel informs her. He opens the door, letting it bang on the wall. A few people groan in response. Bodies are all over the floor, bottles rolling around, the air so filled with alcohol it almost overtakes the scent of sewage.

“Also a common drinking place for deadbeats who have been kicked out of every tavern in the city. Speaking of which,” Az raises his voice gesturing to a man in black curled up with a bottle in the corner of the room. “Ezell, I think it’s about time for you to go home.”

The man lazily gets up, grumbling to himself, before making his way over to Azriel and Elain “She left me, boss. My wife wants nothing to do with me.” 

“Which one?” Az asks bluntly.

The three of them make their way back to the tunnels entrance. With Azriel’s spy complaining about his relationship problems almost the whole way. Apparently this is only one of several failed marriages the male has been through.

“Then there was Molly, she was a dear thing,” he tells Elain fondly. “Never did like me leaving for work though.” She wonders how much the female knew about his job. If spies are permitted to tell their loved ones anything about what they actually do.

“Oh and Tanya, can’t forget her, she used to cook up a mean pot roast. And could kill a man with just one look in her eye,” pride fills Ezell’s voice. His large barrel shaped chest puffing out.

“That seems unlikely,” Az mumbles, wings tucked in tight avoiding the tunnel walls.

“It’s true, boss. Half banshee she was.” Azriel give Elain a look that suggest he very much doubts that. She holds back a giggle.

There’s something oddly charming about the male, Elain decides. Despite wallowing in actual filth there’s a cheerfulness to him that bleeds through his sorrow. As if he’s long grown accustomed to all kinds of hardship. It’s the same thing Elain sometimes senses from Cerridwyn.

Like she’s learned to bear pain with a smile on her face.

“But enough about me and my petty problems. It’s an honour to meet you,” he sketches a bow towards Elain. “Even if I’m in no state to be meeting such a fine lady.” He chuckles. Elain gives him a soft smile. 

“I’m hardly dressed for the occasion myself.” She gestures to her muddy gown.

“Nonsense. A lady is always dressed perfectly, in whatever clothes she chooses to wear,” he gives her a friendly crocked grin.

“Watch it,” Azriel tells him darkly, shadows curling around his wings. For a moment Elain wonders if he’s jealous of the male.

Ezell directs an amused look towards Elain, like he’s thinking the same thing. There’s warmth to his dark eyes, almost softening his overall hard face.

Ezell’s brown hair is cropped short, there’s a brutal sharpness to his jaw. His nose is long, hawklike, looking like it’s been broken a few times. With scars being so rare amongst fae Elain can only imagine what caused it.

Truthfully, Ezell looks like a hardened criminal. The type of male Elain would avoid on the street based on his appearance. She feels ashamed of that, that she could be so judgmental without fully knowing a person.

Elain mentions as much to Azriel once they drop the spy off at his apartment.

He chuckles, “Honestly, I think most of Ezell’s problems would be solved if more females learned to avoid him.”

“Not very lucky in love, is he?” She asks him wryly. 

“No, when I found him,” shadows drip off of him, slipping down his legs. “Well, let’s just say most of my spies have stories of their own.” There’s a finality to his voice that prevents Elain from any further questions, despite her curiosity.

It occurs to her how much of a sign of trust it was for Azriel to bring her with him tonight. To meet another one of his spies. His words the other night come back to her, spies aren’t granted quick and painless deaths. 

She’s lain awake in bed thinking about it almost every night since he’s said it. Wonders how many times Azriel has seen such a thing happen.

“Thank you, for taking me tonight,” She tells him sincerely. Grabbing his hand, preparing to winnow back to the manor.

“Walking around in sewage wouldn’t be my first choice of an evening with you.” There’s enough heat in Azriel’s hazel eyes that Elain quickly looks away. She can feel the blush staining her cheeks as she wonders what his first choice would have been, if he had his way. 

Mostly to distract herself from that thought, she jokes, “Luckily I was a mess before we left, so it’s no trouble.” She gestures to her still muddy gown, sporting new stains that Elain’s going to have to burn to get out.

Azriel gazes down at her intensely, sharp jaw tightening. Moonlight illuminating his face as he grips her hand tighter. “You look beautiful,” he says softly. Shadows surround them, Azriel winnowing them both away before Elain has a chance to respond. 

As they get to her sitting room she opens her mouth to speak, red faced and heart racing, but Azriel beats her to it. “Do you know why I wanted you to come with me tonight?” 

When she doesn’t reply he continues, “It might have taken me weeks of looking before I thought to look for Ezell in the sewers. By that time someone else could have got to him first. I could have found my spy dead,” his voice gets strained towards the end of the sentence.

“But Ezell is safe, at home in bed. Because of you,” he tells her. Admiration filling his face. It’s enough to make her feel deeply self conscious.

Elain looks down. “It wasn’t really that special. I didn’t even do anything,” she mumbles.

“You are powerful Elain. And what you do is important. Never underestimate yourself,” Azriel sounds so sure when he says it. Elain doesn’t quite believe him but nods softly anyways.

He leaves her not long after. After a very long bath Elain continues her routine of gazing at the stones Azriel gave to her. That night, Elain swears she hears the calls of seagulls as her fingers caress the dark gray stone. Strong gust of wind blowing as she touches another one.

Elain smiles to herself, feels almost good as she falls asleep. As long as she ignores the ivy slowly growing in the corner of her bedroom.

—— ·𖥸· ——

Notes: